


Beyond Redemption

by lilylashes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, references to gang rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-05
Packaged: 2018-02-03 11:54:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1743782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilylashes/pseuds/lilylashes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this prompt:<br/><i>When John was a young man, he raped a young drug addict (maybe as part of a gang rape).</i></p><p>  <i>Years later, he meets Sherlock at Bart's and he recognizes him as the person he raped, but Sherlock doesn't recognize him.</i></p><p>  <i>John feels guilty, and eventually he confesses to Sherlock. Sherlock does not forgive him and their friendship ends for good.</i></p><p>  <i>No redemption of any kind for John, please.</i></p><p>Can be read as a stand-alone, but it's based on the aftermath of 'Beyond Repair' by tenderly_wicked (permission granted)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beyond Redemption

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Beyond Repair](https://archiveofourown.org/works/350653) by [tenderly_wicked](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderly_wicked/pseuds/tenderly_wicked). 



> This is pretty much the saddest thing I have ever written :( I'm a sucker for happy endings, and if you are likeminded, this is **not** the story for you. I made myself so sad while writing this that I basically don't have anything else to say aside from _sorry_.
> 
> Comments/kudos are my 7% :)
> 
> xx lilylashes

**BEYOND REDEMPTION**  
by lilylashes

  
 _'Oh, Sherlock,' Moriarty croons, his voice dripping with faux sympathy and his eyes dancing with mirth, 'I warned you, didn't I? I warned you I would burn the heart out of you if you continued to interfere with my plans. So foolish you were, so arrogant... You thought yourself untouchable, and look at you now.'_  


_Sherlock's hands tremble ever so slightly before he swallows hard, straightens his shoulders and thrusts the mobile phone back at Moriarty, determinedly not looking (again) at the photos. 'Not just playing gay, then are you, James?' he asks coolly, only the slightest trace of a waver in his voice. He clenches his hands into fists, and jams them obstinately into the pockets of his Belstaff._

_'Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock,' Moriarty sings, all but clapping his hands in a fit of glee at Sherlock's discomfort, 'You of all people should know how little these labels matter. After all, your dear Doctor Watson has been whining about not being gay since the first day you met. Or should I say: the second day!' he lets out a peal of laughter that is as much madness as it is amusement, 'And here is our young Doctor Watson, balls deep in the arse of an incoherent junkie. No, these labels mean nothing in the end.' As he says these words, he shakes the mobile in Sherlock's direction teasingly._

_Sherlock says nothing, just grits his teeth, and does his best to remain impassive. Moriarty's eyes narrow dangerously, the smile falling from his face as quickly as it appeared._

_'The question now, Sherlock,' he says quietly, and all traces of humour have vanished, 'Is how far you are willing to go to protect your doctor now that you know the truth about him? You called me up here to play a game... How much are you willing to lose?'_

_Ten minutes later, Moriarty lies dead at Sherlock's feet, his blood threatened to soak into Sherlock's Yves Saint Laurent shoes. A taxi approaches on the street below. When he sees John emerge frantically from the cab, Sherlock raises his own mobile to his mouth._

_'Up here, John. Keep your eyes trained on me... Can you do that for me?'_

_And moments later when he throws the phone from him, he knows: this is the last time he will fall for John Watson. Not again for his love, not again for his lies, and never again for the past he had kept so hidden from the man who could see everything._

*****

     That magical moment after the laughter fades is always the heaviest, the foyer of the flat bursting with sexual tension as John and Sherlock slowly wind down from their adrenaline high. Countless times Sherlock lets his eyes wander over to John as the doctor bends over, hands on knees, trying to catch his breath. They live a life of near misses and narrow escapes, two lads who never quite grew up, set out on a neverending adventure.

     It's during these times that Sherlock wonders if maybe he was wrong to have set so many rules out for himself in regards to matters of the heart (and truthfully, the body as well). When he was a young man, he'd made many regrettable choices regarding sexual encounters, most of which he deleted, but some of which had left lasting scars ( _literally, of course, he had no time for metaphorical nonsense_ ). There was one time -- the last time -- when he'd woken in a hospital bed, that resulted in stitches in unpleasant places and yet another trip to rehab, and the worst part was, he couldn't even remember why. It was then that he decided that it was better to leave all that nonsense to the desperate idiots. Love and sex were simply not worth the effort and the consequences.

     Then came John Watson, with his ugly jumpers and psychosomatic limp, and Sherlock found himself... Intrigued. Though he'd managed to sidestep John's fumbling advances with some sort of dignity in place, sometimes he wonders what would have happened if that night at Angelo's, he'd let John babble on a bit more.

     Finally, one night, he makes a choice to forgo his long adhered-to personal rules. He argues to himself that this is simply an experiment, and his hypothesis is a good one. He sees the way John watches him, always watches him, like he's known Sherlock forever, and Sherlock likes the way this feels. Surely, if Sherlock indicates that he is interested in furthering their relationship, John will be amenable, maybe even enthusiastic.

     John is sitting on the couch, watching some mindless show or another on the telly, and Sherlock sits down beside him. He leans against John's side, resting his head on John's chest, which is nothing new, because he always leans on John, and John always leans on him. They help each other in that way. After a few moments, he tilts his head back to gaze up and John, and he sees John smiling down at him. Encouraged by this, he reaches up to cup the side of John's face, and raises himself up to bring his lips to John's. For one brilliant, electric moment, their lips meet, and they share a kiss that tastes of tea and toothpaste, and _finally, oh God, finally_.

     And then it is over. John is leaping from the sofa, nearly falling backwards over his own feet, and Sherlock is left alone, his confusion and humiliation burning in his cheeks.

     'Sherlock, I-' John begins, but stops himself. Sherlock can see his pulse thundering in his neck, and before John turns from him, he sees that John's pupils are blown wide. However, when John turns back around, he seems to have gotten a firm grasp over his reactions, because everything about him is impenetrable. He stands squarely before Sherlock, every bit the soldier he was the first time he met Mycroft, when he pulled rank at Baskerville, when Sally told him for the umpteenth time that he should not be friends with Sherlock. His stance is a defensive one, the one he falls back on when he is threatened, and that's when Sherlock understands:

     He is the threat. He came to the wrong conclusion -- John doesn't want him, and why would he. Shame floods him, and he also stands. John tries to speak again, but Sherlock raises a hand to silence him.

     'It's fine, John,' he says quickly, backing away from John as quickly as he can without overtly coming off as completely pathetic, 'I understand. It's all fine.'

*****

     To the casual observer, life at Baker Street continues on, unaltered after that night. Sherlock still gets indecently happy over morbid affairs and performs experiments with human body parts on the kitchen table, and John follows behind, chastising him all the way. They never mention The Incident, both obstinately pretending it never happened, and Sherlock is fine with this. He doesn't want to have the conversation where John pats his hand sympathetically and tries to tactfully and delicately spare Sherlock's feelings; he'd much rather delete the encounter altogether, accept that his observations were incorrect, and move on.

     The only problem with this, however, is that he simply _can't_ , because he finds himself reviewing the facts over and over as he sits pensively in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin, and by all logical conclusions, John should have responded to his advances. Not only that, but responded _well_ , responded _with interest_. Even Sherlock, who was no virtuoso when it came to social cues, could pick up on John's not-so-candid hints the night they first had dinner at Angelo's. And especially Sherlock couldn't help but notice how closely John watched him, followed him, and was unerringly, unquestioningly loyal to him to the bitter end. Sherlock goes over these facts again and again, trying to make sense of what he knows and what happened, but is unable to figure it out, so he files them away with other unsolved mysteries for the time being.

     Luckily, (or perhaps unluckily), shortly after The Incident, Moriarty reappears on the scene with all the subtlety of an oncoming storm. Sherlock dives headfirst into the madness, grateful for the distraction. John becomes even more quiet and withdrawn, watching Sherlock even more closely and carefully, and spending many nights locked away in his bedroom. Sherlock assumes this is because he is harbouring some unresolved unease after being kidnapped and strapped with Semtex, because he supposes this is how a normal human being would react.

     However, ' _could be dangerous_ ' doesn't count for nothing, and it's only when Sherlock summons Moriarty to the rooftop of Barts, that he realises exactly what it is about Moriarty that causes John to react so strongly, and it's not because John is embracing his own humanity. When Moriarty taunts him with photos of a much younger John, Sherlock initially scoffs and disregards them, until he sees one of John with his arm slung over a boy who is undoubtedly a much younger Moriarty. He scrolls through the photos on Moriarty's mobile, the damn thing still blaring some warbling absurdity by the Bee Gees. Photo after photo of young John and young Jim, and several other boys, all clearly intoxicated, in someone's living room as what looks like a porn film plays on a television in the background. The next few photos are of the group of boys in various states of undress, masturbating, and watching something presumably off screen. They have moved to someone's bedroom. Sherlock sneers in disgust.

     It's only when he sees photos of a close up of someone's cock buried in someone else's arse that he starts to really feel uncomfortable, and the next photo only solidifies his feeling. It's a blurry picture of young John, thrust up between another boy's spread legs, his head thrown back, presumably in pleasure. The boy on the receiving end doesn't seem to have noticed current events, as his head is lolled back off the edge of the bed, and it looks like he, too, is intoxicated in one way or another.

     The next photo is the one that nearly drops Sherlock to his knees. It's a close-up of the boy being fucked, and the face is so very familiar, because it has been looking back at him every time he looks in the mirror. It is, in fact, the face of a much younger Sherlock, his hair a bit longer (because that was the style), and his face a bit gaunter (because of the drugs), but it is most certainly him that was being taken by John.

     A quick scroll through the rest of the photos, and he sees that John was not the only person to have enjoyed Sherlock's arse (and mouth) that night. The worst is one of young Moriarty straddling Sherlock's unconsious face, cock buried deep in Sherlock's throat. He is turned to the camera, grinning, and Sherlock feels shame burn deep in the very pit of his stomach.

     The last few photos go on to show a needle sinking into the skin of Sherlock's forearm, other red marks angry against the pale skin make it obvious that that was not the first hit Sherlock was given that night. There is one of Sherlock's naked, still unconscious form, sprawled in a heap on the bed, covered with bruises and come, and then lastly one of him in a similar position, though this time with his coat hastily draped over him, on a bench in Regent's Park, the sun just peeking over the horizon in the distance.

     He thinks back to his last time waking in the hospital, and remembers being told he was found in a park. And he thinks back to that night, concentrating hard as he can, trying trying trying to remember more details of how he got there, and then it hits him:

     James. The scrawny, arrogant shit he used to buy his coke from when his regular dealer was out (or being especially irritating.) If he'd put James side by side with Moriarty, he really never would have made the connection, but after seeing the photos, it all made sense. And, in that moment, John's reaction made sense as well. He wasn't traumatised because Moriarty had kidnapped him, he was worried that Moriarty would reveal him to be a rapist. Sherlock's rapist.

     Moriarty continues to taunt Sherlock, and Sherlock does his best to seem unaffected, but he knows he is failing. It is almost a blessing when it is time for him to jump, just as he and Mycroft predicted. Though they never expected Moriarty to take himself out as well, it is more of a comfort than an upset. After a quick text to Mycroft and one final phone call to John, Sherlock tumbles from the rooftop, knowing it was the correct choice.

     He will save John so he can save Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, but he will not forget what he learned today, and deep down, he knows that that knowledge is not something he will ever be able to forgive.

*****

     Almost five years go by before Sherlock returns to Baker Street. Mycroft had a hell of a time trying to convince him to return at all, actually. With no John to look forward to surprising with a triumphant return, Sherlock finds himself reluctant to go back to the place where so many memories lie dormant, which does actually surprise him, because he once loved London so fiercely. ( _London and... No, not going there_ ). It's only after the eighth death of some MI6 agent or another that Mycroft forcibly intervenes. Sherlock was in Latvia by that time, having worked his way through most of the Eastern European countries. Moriarty's web has long since been destroyed; Sherlock was now just chasing down loose ends.

     It is somewhat pleasing to find that the flat is just as he left it, minus the body parts in the refrigerator and one particular chair that Sherlock demanded Mycroft's minions dispose of before he agreed to re-enter the UK. The air is musty and thick, and Mrs Hudson scurries around, working open rusty windows and beating the dust out of the curtains.

     Life at Baker Street soon resumes as normal, minus one particular factor, but no one mentions him.

     Some overly ambitious reporter tracks Sherlock down one day, and seeing as he has nothing better to do, he grants her an interview, though he's sure Mycroft will find some way to confisgate the original tape in which Sherlock invents wild stories of helicopter chases and sordid love affairs that reminds him of some inane superspy film he once was forced to watch, which reminds him of... But he tamps down on that memory and continues with his fabrication.

     However, it turns out that some of the footage survives Mycroft's censoring, and it airs on the news later that evening. Sherlock supposes it really shouldn't come as a surprise when he hears pounding at the front door a quarter of an hour later, and Mrs Hudson's surprised and high pitched voice when she answers it. Moments later, there are footsteps thundering up the stairs, and John Watson bursts through the door.

*****

     John looks much like he did the first time Sherlock met him -- about one and a half stone under optimum weight, holding his old metal cane, and wearing one of those awful jumpers. On the other hand, the differences were startling -- the grey in John's hair and skin, the lines on his face, the bags beneath his eyes.

     Clearly time has not been kind to John Watson, and neither shall Sherlock be. He regards the other man coolly, refusing to rise from his chair or be the first to break the heavy silence.

     Finally John speaks, leaning heavily on his cane ( _not psychosomatic this time, then_ ). He takes a deep breath and says 'So... You're not dead,' in that strained voice he usually reserved for when he was speaking to Harry after one of her binges, or the chip and pin machine at Tesco's.

     Sherlock doesn't bother to verbalise a response, just shakes his head slowly, lips pursed and eyebrows raised. If this had been six years ago, he would have said something like 'obvious' or 'dull', but he had no words to spare for John Watson. Not any more.

     John stands in the door way for a long moment before striding over to the kitchen and rummaging in the cupboards. Sherlock watches him mutely, before informing him, 'There's no tea.' John stares at him in disbelief, and old habits die hard, so Sherlock gives more information so that John will understand. 'I've stopped drinking the stuff,' he supplies, though he leaves out the part that he stopped drinking it because it always reminded him of John. He's also given up apricot jam and Chinese takeaway, but there's no reason John needs to know that either.

     When John asks 'why?', Sherlock just shrugs, knowing this will infuriate the ex-Army doctor, but finding he's not all that bothered by that fact. Sure enough, the muscles in John's jaw clench in time with his fists, and Sherlock sees him visibly try to calm himself.

     He is unsuccessful.

     'You're not dead,' John says again, his voice rising, 'You're not dead, and couldn't bother to tell me. You're not dead, and you let me grieve you for five years, Sherlock, five _bloody_ years, and then after all that, I had to find out my best _bloody_ friend was still alive from the _bloody television_!' By the time he finishes his statement, John is yelling at the top of his voice, and he slams his fist on the kitchen table, making the test tubes and beakers filled with godknowswhat jump, and the liquid inside to slosh precariously. Sherlock watches to make sure none of it spills over, because it is so acidic it will eat through the table, and he no longer has a flatmate to split the cost of a replacement.

     Sherlock regards his (former) friend intently, making sure his voice is perfectly steady before replying. 'And _I_ ,' he says carefully, 'had to find out that _my_ best friend was a _rapist_ from a bloody psychopath. Given the two scenarios, John, who do you think has more right to indignation?'

     Sherlock's words hang in the air, and the silence that follows them is almost as heavy as those long past moments in the hallway. During his tirade, John seemed to swell like a balloon full of hot air, but the second Sherlock's words reached him, it was like everything about him deflated. He sags, suddenly looking twice his age, and grips the back of one of the kitchen chairs before collapsing into it.

     'Sherlock, I-' he begins, but now that Sherlock has found his voice, he is not ready to let it go again.

     'You know, John, when you rejected me that night on the sofa, I assumed it was because you saw me for what I really am, and were disgusted. Never would I have ever guessed that it was because you'd already taken what I was going to offer, which actually is quite the compliment to you. As you know, I'm not easily fooled, but I can assure you, John Watson, I will not be taken in again,' Sherlock says these words slowly and deliberately. They are carefully chosen, each word meticulously handpicked and sharpened, over and over, over the course of five years until each one is a razor-sharp blade that Sherlock imagines puncturing John in the chest.

     It seems like his daydreaming is not too far off, because John's face has lost all colour, and his hand is clutching his chest. For one wild moment, Sherlock is concerned that he might go into cardiac arrest, but then he straightens. He stares at Sherlock, and they communicate in the way that only they were able, silently and through the slightest quirk of an eyebrow or tilt of a head. John's eyes are filled with remorse and self-loathing and devastation and an army of dark emotions swirling up in their depths, spilling over at the corners, and tears begin to fall. Sherlock closes his eyes tightly, and when he looks back, there is only one word to describe his expression.

      _Unforgiving_.

     John understands. He nods in acceptance, and steps away from the table, leaning heavily on his cane. He limps to the door, his back straight, like a man heading to his death with dignity. Only when he reaches the doorway does he turn. Sherlock has walked to the door as well, and stands mere feet from him. He sees John breathe deep, knowing the other man is doing all he can to memorise every detail of this moment, this last goodbye. John squares his shoulders, and asks:

     'Will you please just tell me one thing, Sherlock? One last question?'

     Sherlock nods, and John bites his lip, tears still cascading down his weathered cheeks. John doesn't bother to wipe them away. 'Did you... Did you jump because you remembered what I... What I did?' he asks, and his guilt is so palpable that Sherlock is sure he could reach out and touch it if he wanted to. He imagines the texture would be rough, like sandpaper. Like the callouses on John's hands. Like the stubble on his unshaven face. He shakes his head to dislodge the thought.

     'No,' he answers, and sees the slightest bit of weight lifted from John's shoulders, and Sherlock finds he is glad for it. John should carry the burden of many things he has done, but that is not one of them. 'I jumped because Moriarty threatened to kill the three people I cared about most in the world: Lestrade, Mrs Hudson,' he takes a deep breath, and forces himself to look John straight in the eye before he says, 'You.'

     And that's it. That's all it takes. John breaks down completely and falls to his knees right there in the doorway of 221B, his former home. He collapses at Sherlock's feet, his face buried in his hands. One hand reaches up to grip his hair, and he wails, the sounds coming from him like a keening animal.

     Sherlock allows him his moment of grief before reaching down and pulling him to his feet. John's hands are still calloused. Sherlock embraces him, and John sobs into his shoulder, repeating the words ' _please, forgive me, forgive me Sherlock, please_ ,' over and over and over like a prayer for salvation. Sherlock supposes in some ways, it is. He gives John one final squeeze, and pulls back, looking his (former) friend directly in the eyes again.

     'I'm sorry,' he says, 'I can't.'

     He lets John go, but not before placing a chaste kiss on John's lips. It tastes of tea and regret and sorrow and _this is goodbye_. His stubble brushes against Sherlock's cheek, rough like sandpaper. John's lips tremble. His whole body trembles, and he turns away. Sherlock watches him limp down the stairs one at a time. He is in incredible pain, but his back is still straight, and he doesn't turn around as the door closes behind him.

     'Goodbye, John' Sherlock says as John Watson leaves Baker Street for the last time. The silence is heavy. Sherlock is alone.

     Moriarty has burned the heart out of him after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you again to tenderly_wicked for allowing me to glom onto her piece, Beyond Repair. If you haven't read it (do those people still exist?) I strongly recommend it! It's a must-read :)


End file.
